Negatives
by Jennifer N
Summary: I—I didn't do my job this time. And I lost her." Vaughn, Jack, and their memories of Sydney. COMPLETE


**Title:** Negatives

**Author:** Jennifer N (jennifer_n97@hotmail.com)

**Summary:**  "I—I didn't do my job this time.  And I lost her."  Vaughn, Jack, and their memories of Sydney.  1/1

**Category:** Angst.  Again.  Still.

**Spoilers:** Season Three

**Rating:** PG-13

**Distribution:** CM, SD-1, ff.net

**Disclaimer:**  _Alias_ does not belong to me.  There are also lines in this fic taken from the following episodes: 1.08 "Time Will Tell," 1.10 "Spirit," 1.13 "The Box Part II," and 1.16 "The Prophecy."  Also not mine.

**A/N:** A season three fic inspired by watching the pilot.  That could only happen to me, right?

Hugs as always to the non-deletion crew.  :P  For the moment, I don't hate you.  ;)

**Negatives**

You're not sure how long you've been awake.

The terms 'day' and 'night' mean nothing to you anymore.  In truth they haven't meant much for years; you would find sleep whenever you could, whether it was eleven o'clock at night or nine o'clock in the morning.  In a car, on a plane, at your desk, in your bed, in _her_ bed—it didn't matter.  Eventually, your body would wear out and sleep would claim you.

It doesn't work that way now.

You know the last time you truly slept.  The flight back to Los Angeles from Mexico City.  The engines roared to life around you until land was just a small dot below.  You were on the first plane back, you remember; a second plane with a recuperating Jack would follow several hours later, as soon as he was deemed stable enough to travel.  But you, you wanted to whisk Sydney off on that damn trip of yours.  Jack had all but given his approval as he ordered you to get her out of there.  As you drifted off to sleep on the plane, Sydney safely ensconced in your arms, you thought to yourself that maybe now things would settle down.  A weekend trip now, a ring in a few months . . . the possibilities were endless.

It didn't work that way.

Which is why you are here instead.

You watched the moon fade away from view this morning.  You felt the sun's rays warm your kitchen as you made your coffee and tried to force a few sips down your throat.  You let the fluorescent lighting in your bathroom harshly wake up your half-lidded eyes and the hot water in the shower scald your skin as you tried not to let the importance of this day pound through your brain.

_Sydney__ . . . memorial . . . ashes . . ._

When the water ran cold you finally turned it off, quickly drying off and throwing on some clothes.  The black suit that lay on your unwrinkled bed taunted you, tormented you.  It was a nice suit, you had to admit.  _"A very nice suit,"_ a voice agreed deep inside you; you scrunched your eyes to block out the memory.

_Sydney__ . . . "You need a new suit" . . . "I like the black one" . . . "Pretty please, Vaughn?  For me?"_

She gave you her best puppy dog look that day in the store as she tried to convince you to buy it.  She never realized she wouldn't be there to see you wear it, that the first time you wore this would be her memorial.

At last you slowly slip on the shirt and pants, wrap the tie around your neck, button up the jacket.  You grab your wallet and your keys and walk to your front door, gripping the handle.  To say that you don't want to go today is a gross understatement, but some small, irrational part of your brain thinks that if you never leave your apartment, you won't have to witness her ashes being spread, and then she really won't be gone, she'll still be here, she won't have left you . . .

Resolutely you twist the handle and step outside.  You lock the door behind you and ease your body into your car.

It is quite possibly the hardest thing you've ever had to do.

*********

She's gone.

Her ashes have drifted off to the ends of the earth.  Far away from Credit Dauphine and the Joint Task Force Center, the pier and the observatory, the warehouse and Joey's Pizza.

And you are left here.

Alone.

In the presence of her friends and her colleagues, the virtual family she held precariously in place for so long.

Dixon.  Marshall.  Weiss.  Kendall.

And then there is Jack.  The father-in-law you never had.

He always did play the part though.  A bit too well, in your opinion.

The gun to your head, the menacing looks, the conversations about not getting too comfortable.  Earning his respect meant far more to you than it should have; even then, even though all you had with Sydney was an unspoken bond, a tether that could not be broken, you knew his approval was important.  Of you, of _both_ of you.

In the end, it didn't matter.  Not only did he lose her, but you did too.

*********

You watched the sun go down last night as the tears trickled down your face.  You did your best to keep them from splattering on the photograph you held in your hands.

It is all you have left of her now.

A roll of film from a disposable camera she bought one afternoon when she stopped by the drugstore on the way home to pick up nail polish remover.  The two of you had put the camera to use the following afternoon as you walked hand in hand through the city, revisiting places that had meant so much to you before.

There are pictures of you, staring adoringly at the camera, and more importantly, at the photographer.  There are pictures of her, a shy smile, full dimples, a blush gracing her cheeks.  And then there are pictures of both of you, the kind where you hope you've held the camera far enough from your faces and blink at the overpowering flash that temporarily blinds you.

You trace her image with your fingertips again and do your best to imagine that the photograph's glossy finish is her soft skin.  It doesn't work, not really, but any illusion is better than the harsh reality that is your new existence.

You are still rifling through photographs the next morning when someone knocks on your door.

You stumble through the living room and peer through the peephole.  Cursing under your breath, you run a hand through your hair in a meager attempt to smooth it out.  You give up and finally let the door swing open as you welcome your visitor.

"Hi, Jack."

*********

He strides into your apartment, giving your furnishings a cursory glance.  "Nice place."

You swallow and look at him evenly.  "You're not the Bristow I wanted to see it."

He blinks and walks over to your kitchen table, setting a large box down.  "I thought you might like to see these.  These pictures," he clarifies, removing a photo album from the box.

You stare at him dumbfounded, your groggy mind trying to process his words.

Jack continues as if you had replied to him.  He moves the box to the floor and sits in one of your chairs.  "This was taken just a few hours after Sydney was born," he tells you as he opens to the first page.  He holds it up for you to see from where you are still standing.  Slowly, you approach him and scoot a second chair closer to him.

To her.

And so it continues, for hours.  Jack turning the pages and narrating, you quietly watching the woman you loved—yes, loved—grow from a tiny baby to a precocious young girl to a woman.  You see her crawling on the floor and standing in her crib and riding a tricycle and playing with dolls.  You see her climbing up the steps of the school bus and wearing Halloween costumes and riding the carousel again, her pigtails flailing behind her.  You see missing teeth and scraped knees and blue ribbons next to science fair projects.  You see acne and longer legs and a growing body and shorter hair and longer hair again and a cap and a gown.  You see your Sydney, her smile, her laugh, her eyes, no matter what her age, and your heart aches for her even more.

For now you have the exact image of what you wanted your children to look like.  And it's killing you.

The sun is high in the sky when the final photo album is closed.  You stare at Jack, not knowing what to say to him.  The words 'thank you' are too empty, too meaningless for what he has shared with you.  You know without asking that these are the pictures he has stared at night after night as he has tried to hold onto the memories of the little girl he has lost.  No matter how old she was, a part of her was still three, and five and a half, and eight, and eleven, and thirteen, and sixteen in his eyes.

You stand up and quickly retrieve your peace offering.  You sit back down beside him and open the envelope.  "These were taken about six weeks ago," you offer as you turn to the first photograph.  He looks at you and nods once, then returns his gaze to what you hold in your hand.

You show him every photograph, lingering on the ones that show only her—her profile, her face, her laughter.  Her smile.  Always her smile.

At last you are finished; there are no more memories for the two of you to share.  Jack slowly rises and walks towards the front door, leaving the box behind.  "I—I have other copies at home," he says quietly.  "Photo albums with everyone in them.  You can keep these."  You nod, understanding, and reach for the photographs you have.  You quickly pull out the second set—it was supposed to be Sydney's copy—and hand it to him.

He accepts the photographs you place in his outstretched hand and coughs.  "I know that Sydney never had an easy life.  And I—" he stops.  "Thank you for making the final months of my daughter's life happy," he says in a low voice.

You blink in response, your voice failing you.  By the time the power of speech has returned, he is gone, leaving you standing in front of the closed door.

*********

Ever since that fiery night you have clung to the memories you have of Sydney.  The last few months, when you were both so deliriously happy.  The takedown of SD-6, when you could finally move forward as a couple.  Your first date—only the two of you could have had such a spectacular date end in such disaster.  The club in Taipei, holding her hand and showing the world you were possessive of her, even as she shyly grinned at your actions.  

Breaking into the Vatican.  _"We'd have to fly out separately, undercover . . . We'd have to leave tonight.  You in?"  _Working with her inside SD-6.  _"Let's just take this one step at a time.  This is a charge of C-4.  I can tell, 'cause it says C-4 everywhere."  _Buying her a present, protocol be damned.  _"What were you doing in an antique store?"  "I don't know."_

Working with her, doing your best to ensure she wouldn't be revealed as a double.  _"Are you romantically interested in anyone?  Could be a question."_

In the beginning, it all came down to an instinct, shocking red hair, and the eyes that warily locked with yours.  You have reflected on every moment you shared, from your introduction to fights over paper bags and conversations at convenience stores and car washes to moments on piers, observatories, train stations.

But there was one reason, one person, which led to your introduction so many months ago.  After all this time, you have decided it's time to meet him, so you have wracked your brain and recalled conversations you had with Sydney back when she was supposedly just your asset.  Her loss was still fresh, and it didn't take much to spring a memory to life, cause tears to fill her eyes.  She didn't share much about her former fiancée with you—she didn't want to burden you, so instead she bottled it up, compartmentalized her grief—but she gave you enough details that you're certain you know where to go.

You pull into the cemetery and park your car, wandering through the rows of headstones.  It is almost forty-five minutes later when you finally see the name you are searching for.  _Daniel Hecht._  You stare at the granite, lost in thought, lost in memories, for what could be seconds or minutes or hours.  You don't know.  Finally, you sink to the ground, ignoring the dampness that seeps into your jeans.

"Um, hi.  My name is Michael Vaughn.  I've never done this before.  Talked to a stranger at his grave, I mean.  It's just . . . Sydney was my girlfriend."  You pause and glance around you.  Thankfully, you are still alone; there is no one milling about in the middle of an ordinary L.A. weekday.

You take a deep breath and resolutely continue.  You tell him about Sydney, how you met her, how you fell in love with her, how she avenged his death by destroying the organization that killed him.  You brag on her, boasting her numerous accomplishments and achievements, tell him how she is—_was_— one of the CIA's most decorated agents.  You almost smile as you relive your memories out loud.

Almost.

Your story winds to a close, and you can feel your throat tighten.  "The reason I'm here, Danny—I guess I can call you that; that's why Syd always called you—is that . . . she's dead.  There was a fire, and . . . she didn't make it.  Her ashes were spread out at sea a few days ago."

You bury your face in your hands for a few moments, trying to compose yourself again.  "I—I was always—Syd liked to call me her guardian angel.  I never really agreed with her, but she insisted that I was the one who always looked out for her and protected her.  I—I didn't do my job this time.  And I lost her.

"If I can't have her with me anymore, Danny . . . I would like to think she's with you."  You pull the photograph out of your pocket and lean it against the headstone.  "Can you look out for her, Danny?  I know she's a capable woman, but she has this knack for getting into trouble and being so damn stubborn and impetuous and . . ." You choke back your sobs.  "And God, I miss her.  I just . . . I miss her."

You sit on the grass as your grief washes over you again.  "I miss her so much," you sob, rocking back and forth.

Eventually your tears fade away—for now—and you are able to resume your conversation.  "I'm going to do everything in my power to find her killers," you inform the headstone.  "Make sure Syd knows that.  No matter what it takes, I am going to hunt them down and gut them.  They won't go unpunished."  You angrily nod to yourself and push yourself up until you are standing.  You touch the top of the headstone and glance down at the picture now resting against it.  "I love you, Syd," you murmur to yourself.  "Be happy with Danny."

You slowly walk back to your car and open the door.  But as you close the door behind you, you realize that your conversation was for naught.

You can't give her back to Danny.

You want her too much.  You love her too much.  You need her too much.

And so you begin a new conversation as you drive away.  With her.

~~~fin~~~


End file.
